


Movie Night

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Supernatural (Reader Insert Verse) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Romantic Comedy, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 02:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13471971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: Sam puts you up to the task of guessing a classic 80s movie he's never seen.





	Movie Night

“Die Hard.”

Why bother asking? Without a doubt, John Winchester had educated his children in the ways of Bruce Willis. And Sam’s scowl will never let you forget it, his brow angled like a raptor’s wings in flight. “Give me a break, that was our mandatory Christmas movie every year.”

“Alright, alright, it was worth a shot,” you abide. “Lemme think a minute.”

With fingers laced behind your head, you lean back in the chair, the tips of Sam’s deft thumbs digging into the knots on the bottoms of your feet. The silence of the bunker permeates your mind, sluggish and struggling to remember the movies of your own childhood. On the table rests your laptop, a list of movies glowing bright, searched to aid in your guessing game.

“The Goonies.”

“Okay, now I’m offended,” he states as he digs deep and you gasp, a sharp shock lancing up your leg.

“Hey!” you shout with a laugh as you straighten in your chair. “Gentle! That’s a good one.”

“Oh,” he hums with his own smirk. “You mean right… here?”

His thumbs dig in again, another bolt of pain numbing your toes. “Stop that!” you hiss with a giggle as you swat at his hands. “It hurts so good!”

“Then keep looking,” he insists with a nod towards the laptop. “There’s only a couple I haven’t seen. If you find one, we’ll watch it.”

“And what if I  _don’t_ find one?” you ask.

Another prod of his thumbs replies, followed by an appraising quirk of his brow. Nose scrunched, you return his scowl, but Sam laughs despite your glare.

“Just wait until tonight when these are ice cold,” you tease with a wiggle of your toes. “I’ll warm them up on your thighs.”

His laughter cuts off with a click of his teeth, Sam’s hazel glare serious as a heart attack. “Don’t even think about it,” he mutters, and his subtle shift in tactic races gooseflesh along your leg, the tips of his fingers light on your ankles. “Pick!”

God dammit. Focusing with Sam’s hands plying your flesh, the innocent skin of your toes, calves, the backs of your knees, proved impossible. “Raiders,” you blurt in a rush of air.

“I’m beginning to think you’re not even trying,” he whispers as his hands slip along your thighs. “Y/N?”

Son of a bitch. “Ghostbusters. Aliens. Empire. Blade Runner. Sixteen Candles.”

Sam’s scoff of disapproval draws yours eyes from the laptop, his own coy smirk far too confident. “You’re close,” he mutters under his breath. Nimble fingers grasp the belt loops of your jeans and jerk the chair to him. A breathless gasp sneaks past parted lips, and his massive hands grip your thighs, thumbs biting into your muscles. “So close,” he whispers, lips on your ear and breath scalding your skin.

“Shit,” you mutter, “ah… Princess Bride. Lost Boys. Karate Kid.”

“Excellent movies,” Sam agrees with a press of his lips to your neck. “But I’ve seen them all.”

An unbidden whimper floats to the surface, buoyed by a fresh wave of arousal. “Weird Science?”

Sam’s deep laughter, sung through his nose, rivals the sweetest music. “Nice try,” he replies as he slides from his chair to kneel between your thighs. “But no dice.”

Shit, but this was  _difficult_. Not only were the 80s rife with cult classics, attempting to find the select few Sam had yet to see bordered on impossible with his lips and tongue on your neck, trailing kisses along your collar. “Evil Dead… Jedi… Bill and Ted…”

“Keep going,” he moans into the hollow of your neck.

 _Fuck_.

In a bid for control, your hands seek his hair, his thick brown locks the perfect leverage, but to no avail. Your grip falls slack as Sam follows the plunging neckline of your shirt, lips guided by the curve of your breasts. “Uh… Rambo. Coming to America. E.T.”

“Seen ‘em,” he breaths into your flesh.

How unlucky? Then again, with Sam’s lips on your skin, unlucky opposed every sensation, every rush of arousal that dizzied your vision, spinning the room with relentless assault. But it’s when you search the screen of the laptop one last time that his fingers grasp your shirt, dipping into your bra and revealing the taut nipple of a breast. “Anymore guesses?” he whispers with a lick of his lips, dangerously close to the rosy pink flesh.

Another whimper drags from your chest, breath in short supply as his lips part and he nears the peak. “I don’t… God dammit, I don’t know,” you whine, “there’s too many.”

“Oh, you can find it,” Sam sighs, his breath scalding the sensitive skin. “It’s obvious at this point.”

You grunt in frustration, unable to fathom the  _obvious_  with so many movies remaining, let alone Sam’s  _distractions_. Sci-fi, drama, action, you balk at the options, too numerous. And if you don’t act soon, movie night would be postponed, for Sam’s eager lips hovered, a mere inch shy of your skin, tongue reaching with a slow stretch. With one more glance to the laptop, you find your saving grace,  _the_  movie standing out clear as day.

“An American Werewolf in London.”

His lips close around your nipple, sucking you into his mouth and tongue swirling around the taut bud. A sharp, gasping cry of amazement rushes to the ceiling, your back arching for more. Tongue and lips work in perfect rhythm to extract every ounce of pleasure from you, and the prayers, the benedictions of praise run from your lips in a babbling mess. God, if the punishment for being wrong was Sam Winchester’s divine lips feasting on your body, why bother ever being right?

The button of your jeans pops apart with a flick of his fingers, zipper drawing in a tantalizing drag, and Sam’s eyes lock with yours. Lewd sucking sounds fill your ears, coupled with his quiet moans, so soft it might be your imagination. But unbidden rolls of your hips encourage him, eager for more, and he obliges, sucking harder, fingertips biting into your skin, and his hand slips into your pants.

He gasps, a short breath paired with a wet  _pop_ as your breast falls from his lips and two of his long, thick fingers fill you. His ravenous moan sings with yours, the chorus of your lust rising to the heavens in a dizzying rush of arousal. Son of a bitch, but he was  _good_. Mere seconds of his attention reduced you to a puddle of raw arousal, his name and  _more_  and  _please, yes, God, that’s so good_  and  _holy shit, I’m so close_  your mantras, repeated like a prayer desperate for absolution. And in a way, it is; as Sam’s free hand tugs aside the fabric covering your other breast, he answers your every ask, the tip of his tongue stiff against your hardened peak. He teases you, drawing out your pleasure until you writhe in your chair, squirming as he struggles to hold you, pinning you with his weight, but it’s too much, and his lips suck you into his mouth, cheeks hollowed as his eyes find yours again, and his fingers—

A cry of shock rents the air, your moan creeping ever higher, transcending into a final whimper as Sam withdraws, a languid stroke of your sex. You seek leverage again, some measure of control, a semblance of stability in the torrent of arousal lest you drift out to sea, forever lost in the storm. And so, you reach out, the fingers of one hand diving into his hair again and wrenching him from your breast. It falls from his mouth with another lewd  _pop_ , undulating with heaving breaths.

And when his lips meet yours in a greedy, hungry kiss, the entire world shatters, exploding into a million tiny pieces. Sweet and warm with the subtle tang of beer lingering on his tongue, you devour him, consuming everything he gives to you. But it’s not enough. You need more, a foundation, something solid, whole, and your free hand flies to the table searching for that reality.

But your fingers smack the keyboard of your laptop instead.

Call it serendipity, call it ironic, hell, call it a coincidence, but to you in that moment, with Sam’s hand buried in your pants and his lips crushing yours, ticking clocks and  _Back to the Future_  could fuck right off.

Sam freezes, fingers shuddering and tongue slipping from your mouth as his attention turns to the laptop, clocks ticking in earnest. You follow his wide-eyed stare to the screen where your searching hand managed to start the 80s sci-fi classic. And then he parts from you, hand abandoning your center as he stares, mouth agape and brow creeping toward his hairline.

Perfect. Way to ruin the moment, Y/N, way to ruin perfect foreplay preceding what was sure to be a night of amazing sex, and god dammit, you’d been so fucking patient since teaming up with Sam and his brother, it was about time the two of you—

“Are you… did you do that on purpose?”

“No!” you shout as you smack the keyboard again, pausing the movie. “I hit it on accident.”

“Huh,” he laughs, a short chuckle though his nose. “That’s it.”

A dark scowl furrows your brow as you glare at Sam. “What?”

“I’ve never seen  _Back to the Future_ ,” he explains, “I suppose we can watch it now. Unless you want—”

Your lips silence him, grasp tightening in his hair, and the smallest whimper from Sam's throat hums through your entire body, a coursing rush of arousal seeking release. And Sam acquiesces, his tongue parting your lips and drowning your senses once more. The seconds drag for an eternity, stretching as if to grant you more time in that moment, until Sam parts from you.

“Do you want to watch it now or—” he starts but the thought drifts into a moan.

The flat of your hand smooths along his stiffened length in his jeans, reaching the belt buckle and unfastening it. The button of his pants follows in quick succession, and Sam’s awed gaze unravels your every restraint.

“Later,” you whisper against his lips.

Sam’s strength never ceases to amaze you, but as he grasps your backside and lifts you from the chair, another pathetic sigh graces your lips. Across the bunker he carries you to his room, but at his door, he hesitates. Ever the gentleman, Sam checks in again, warm, hazel eyes alight with excitement.

“You sure?”

One more kiss ought to drive your point home, and so your lips crush his, rough and greedy and insistent. Sam throws the door wide open, kicked with a heavy thud of his boot, and he rushes to his bed, wasting no time as he lays you upon the mattress. With your bodies flush, the kiss lingers, easing to a tender touching of lips and soft swipes of the tongue until he parts from you again.

“Later, then?” he asks one last time.

A coy smirk hooks the corner of your lips as you unzip his pants, his moan piercing the silence.

“ _Much_ later.”

 


End file.
